


Of Era Zero Kings and Queens

by Takene_ne



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst without plot, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Feels, Founding of Konoha, Gen, Hashirama's big dreams, Kinda, Madara is the best bro, Minor Character Death, Trying to make sense of canon, Warring States Period (Naruto), have I mentioned AWP already?, of sorts, until he isn't, various nameless Senju
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takene_ne/pseuds/Takene_ne
Summary: When Kawarama died, for the first time in his still so very short life Hashirama really understood the importance of protection. For the first time questioned generations old rules of indifference, superiority and self served justice, and for the first time considered the purpose of this ongoing war.He found none.





	Of Era Zero Kings and Queens

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, surprise, I’m alive! I’ve been out of the fandom world the whole summer and I’ll be catching up with stuff… soon (well, in October, likely) but I still wanted to come by and say hi beforehand :3 So. This was the first fic I wrote after returning to Naruto fandom, so it can be a little outlandish and tangled but I like it nonetheless!  
>   
> The usual notes:
> 
>  **Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto-sensei.**  
>  Title taken from **_Camero Cat – The Town Lost In Lies_** , because I’m unable to name my stories, always.  
>   
> Imagine Mito married Hashirama when Konoha was already a thing and enjoy the drama.  
> Then you can read my little rant about canon being stupid in the notes below.

 

_War is never pretty._

     That was the first thing Hashirama learned when he joined the battles as a kid. It never mattered who you were or what you valued – the only determinant of your worth was how much damage you could cause, how many opponents take with you before you meet your own end.  
     Hashirama never liked war. He never enjoyed unnecessary violence and bloodshed, never took pride in killing people even when they weren’t his own. He was a fine soldier, though. Talented warrior with skills and capabilities to defeat many and determination to do so without fail. And he was strong. Powerful even, enough to spread worry amongst his enemies whenever they faced him in battle, enough so to be seen as a _threat_ despite his young age and inexperience. But that was all alright. Power meant survival and he was willing to gain as much as he possibly could to ensure continuous existence of his people. Power meant superiority and every warrior to ever leave a field of battle unscathed would admit that superiority meant also _life_. So he was going to live and he was going to win, laughing in the face of death through bloody teeth as many times as he had to in order to be the best. Simply because he _could_.  
     Hashirama was young and naïve the first time he entered the battles as a kid, but he had a purpose and a reason to fight, and even though the war was ugly, he was never going to back down.

_No soul can leave a battlefield unharmed, no matter how fierce the warrior it belongs to. No mind can stay intact, undisrupted and peaceful after taking a life of the other, equal being, and wrong are those who say that duty sharpens the blade._

     Kawarama died for nothing.  
     He was too young and too innocent to fully understand the stakes they made him play at, and yet too loyal, too loving towards his elders to even think for a split second about questioning orders. Children soldiers were doomed to die sooner or later from day one, everyone knew that, but desperate times called for desperate measures and they _hoped_. Every time their children entered the battle, they hoped it weren’t the last time seeing them alive. Hashirama hoped too, but before the day he lost his youngest brother, he never understood the full impact of the tragedy he was taking part in, too.  
     _“He died a hero!”_ said their father over the plain coffin, with hurt turned to anger in his voice and only a trace of resentment flickering deep inside his eyes, lighting the void. There was no time to mourn, no time to regret and most of all no time to break down in tears and sobs, in a desperate attempt to call out the universe on its unfairness and cruelty. Because soldiers don’t break down. Don’t cry, don’t _beg_. Not for mercy, not for spared life and never for forgiveness. Showing emotions while your hands are soaked in blood is against the rules – impassivity keeps you sane, keeps you cool, it keeps your judgment clear. _“We’re shinobi!”_ a simple phrase passed on through endless generations from father to son, from mother to daughter, from sibling to sibling, simple phrase that means everything and justifies everything, a phrase that is the only true way to go. Or is it.  
     When Kawarama died, for the first time in his still so very short life Hashirama really understood the importance of protection. For the first time questioned generations old rules of indifference, superiority and self served justice, and for the first time considered the purpose of this ongoing war.  
     He found none.

 _Blood spilled for the sake of violence and hatred, in the name of your fathers and their fathers and all those who came before, spilled without mercy or reason, without_ thought, _when you can no longer remember what the fight is about other than vengeance – that blood is never glorious._

     Itama died alone.  
     With a scream of terror trembling on his lips like the sweetest praising hymn for Lady War, cornered by a bunch of Sharingan users like a mouse just about to fall prey to a gang full of vicious, hungry stray cats.  
     He died in pain and fear, in a horrible way no child ever should, mocked and ridiculed and without any hope for salvation. Morality is questionable and fluid when you’re a trained assassin fighting a war against hundreds like you, and duty often overpowers personal feelings of what is right as it’s _supposed_ to do, but there are also thin lines, very, very thin, very, very fine lines of no return, where you leave your humanity behind never to regain it back. Merciless execution of a child, maybe not entirely helpless and not entirely without blame, but a child nonetheless, is always one of them. It leaves nothing but a monster where a human once was, and even though all shinobi are monsters in their own right, there are still things only a beast would do.  
     Hashirama was shattered when he found his brother fallen by a bloodied rock, still warm and soft but already deadly pale and unmoving _and why is he not moving? Why!? Itama, come on, speak to me, c’mon, you can do it, **move dammit,** **ITAMA!!!**_ He was shattered and devastated and torn and **_late_**. Not much, not more than a brief moment it took to go from one flashpoint to another, not more than a long distance run by which they were separated in the turmoil of the fray, _not much_. But enough.

     He refused to let that break him, though.

     The ever lonely riverbank quickly became his resort, his safe space, his shrine. The only place to calm his thoughts and soothe the pain. The only one to forget his father’s face, to shut out the guilt, the grief, the remorse, the only one to train, and train, and train even more. Without end. Until he became quicker. Better. Unparalleled. He needed to be strong enough to never lose those precious to him ever again.

…

     Madara came as a surprise.  
     He was loud and obnoxious and so unbelievably _stubborn,_ and it didn’t take long for Hashirama to realize how very much alike they were. Touched by loss, mocked by fate, striving to survive in the only way they ever could.  
     Their friendship was fast and fiery, filled with insults, laughter and endless spars. It was easier to breathe having keen soul around, someone to crush your shell and call a fool without hesitation, someone honest. If anything else, among all the things they could not tell each other, it was honesty that kept them grounded.  
     Hashirama never thought he could meet someone who understood his pain, but Madara dreamt the same dream of peace and unity, praised the same values of sympathy and mutual recognition and it was enough for him to see a beam of light in the boundless darkness that was shinobi life.  
     So they dreamed together, weaving careful plans of the future that could never be, future full of happy children, open boundaries, abundance and clans living in harmony. They dreamt of old age and solidarity, and a shared, happy home hidden in the trees.

     Sometimes Hashirama wished Madara were his brother in name and blood, not only in the shared fantasy. Wished for the only soul to ever understand him to stand by his side steady and unquestioned, looking with faith into the better future only they could see and slowly make it _happen_. He wished he could stop all the suffering and death by just sheer power of _want_ , and thinking about the village they could create was both thrilling and overwhelming at the same time.  
     Hashirama wanted peace more than anything else in the world, but he wasn’t sure the world wanted it, too.  
     He knew it would be difficult enough to form an alliance between sworn enemies that everyone around seemed to be, but maintaining it… Maintaining it for long enough to build something worth protection of everyone involved, in the era of unceasing conflicts and never healed wounds, _that_ would be the real challenge.  
     Peace would be meaningless if it only lasted a while, only just enough to fuel hatred and feud twice as vicious as before, leaving their world in flames and despair. They’re shinobi. They were raised to kill in order to protect and kill in order to prove right, and changing the minds of hundreds would take so much _more_ than he could ever wish to provide. So much more than just one tiny spark of hope, shining in an endless sea of hostility and stubbornness.  
     Road to redemption could not be easy. One man was no match against an army, no matter his strength. But two…?    
     Sometimes Hashirama wished Madara were his brother more than any of those he already had and lost. Sometimes he wished they were something more than just a pair of stupid, broken kids with their stupid dreams and impossible plans, hiding in the trees by a never attended riverbank. Sometimes he wished their affiliations didn’t matter and facing the battle on its opposite sides was never a possibility. And sometimes…  
     Sometimes he wished they never met at all.

 _There is no honour in death._  
     On the battleground, surrounded by endless corpses of fallen allies and foes alike, when all you can see is the cold, steady steel in the hands of thy enemy and colder even void in their eyes, when your body writhes in agony and every desperate movement is almost too much to bear, when every breath, every heartbeat may be the last and there is no strength in your limbs left to just get up and run _… When “Hooray Victory!” screams your tortured mind, caged in a heavy helmet of delusions and lies you were fed since the day of birth, convinced more and more with every step you took that destruction is the only path forward you are able to take, the only path that ever_ is _, because that’s how it’s always been and no matter that you’ll cease to exist in three… two… one…_  
    _The battle’s won._  
_No one cares to count the cost. It’s not the first time, not the last. Get up, take gear, smooth hair, wipe blood, breath in, breath out, and move on already, for dear God’s sake! No grave is gonna dig itself, soldier!_

     When Senju Butsuma and Uchiha Tajima finally finished each other on a sunny, windless day, to the last moments mocking their opponents with vicious glee and never ending lack of sympathy, Hashirama felt nothing.  
     By all means the loss of one’s father was always… distressful, but long gone were the days when he could remember anything but quarrels and contempt between them. He loved his father. Of course he did. They were kin, they were blood, they were family, so little of it he still had left. But they were also nothing alike, never mixing, never compatible and never at peace, like ice and fire, like water and oil.  
     Hashirama loved his father dearly, of course he did, but sometimes love just wasn’t enough.

     Butsuma’s death meant change, though. A shift in power never went without an echo and Hashirama had to be prepared to cease any conflicts rising among the clan. He might’ve not been afraid of direct power play as there was no one capable to defeat him in combat, but political matters were never that easy.  
     Hashirama might’ve been the next Clan Head by birthright, but in order to be designated as one he primarily needed a _wife_. Rubbish clan’s traditions or not, this one even he, always so unwilling to concur and rebellious towards the elders, couldn’t oppose.  
     So they found him a girl from a clan’s branch not too closely related to his own and made them marry in a quick, painless ceremony while his father’s grave was still fresh and loose.  
     Hashirama liked his wife. As much as one can like a person forced to spend the rest of their days with. She was good with sword and harsh with words, and she rarely backed down from anything. She smiled a lot, too. With warmth, but never with softness. They made surprisingly good partners, both in the field and in life.  
     She gave him two sons and a stillborn daughter and one day Hashirama found himself with a _family_.  
     But war was never pretty and so it always had a price.

_“For how can man die better, Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods..."*_

     Hashirama never wanted to follow the steps of his father, never desired war to be his path. Sending his people to slaughter in battle he didn’t think meaningful was never easy but he understood enough of broken hearts of his kin, aching for revenge and justice to know that it was only right. That they wouldn’t have it any other way.  
     But Hashirama was tired. He couldn’t force himself to fight wholeheartedly more often than not and even his cheerful demeanour, usually so familiar and easy to fit into, was breaking slowly, crack after crack showing his true resolve open for the world to see. And so he used every opportunity that had presented itself to yell pleas of truce over his comrades’ fresh corpses, soaked in sweat and blood and sticky battle dust. He never failed to howl peace offerings over the clang of meeting swords, and to shout of amends and serene future using his hands to tear down the earth beneath his feet.  
     Maybe it wasn’t the best route to do it.  
     He couldn’t think of any better one.   

     On the day Madara’s last brother fell by the hand of his own, Hashirama realized there was no simple way out left for them anymore. He knew Madara would demand blood, for his only wish was to ever keep his brother safe no matter the circumstances. And now he was gone. Lost forever. Vanished in the frigid soil just about to be swallowed whole. And even though Hashirama knew the sour taste of fresh loss very intimately, it was the Uchihas to always care the most and fall the furthest into the cold, scary depths of grief.  
     Hashirama wasn’t sure how well he would be able to cope with the price. Because that there would be one he had no doubts.  

 _It is never about victory. Never about who’s stronger and who is wrong.  
     When the battle cry fills the air and the call to arms is all that’s left from a fragile balance that lasted not nearly long enough; when it’s time to forget and never to regret, not until late hours of the night that might’ve never been again come to soothe the conscience and clear the mind; when _ ‘it’s done, no going back now’ _is the only reason left to stay alive because dying comes easier and faster than endurance, and those who fall are those who lose… It is never about victory, for there are no winners of war. Only survivors._

     Konoha was supposed to be the home of their dreams, safe and pleasant and always kind. It was supposed to be the symbol of peace they lost so much to achieve and a goal they have set from the very beginning. A fantasy turned into reality by a delusional boy, strong enough to fight the odds and push his way forward until everything around had no other choice but to follow. It was a promise, a union and a beginning of a brand new age.  
     But it was never a happy ending.

o0o

     Senju Hashirama was the God of Shinobi.  
     Or so claimed those who faced him in battle and came out of it alive to share the tale. He was majestic, powerful, unstoppable and so, so very _bright_. Like the Sun in a hot, summer day.  
     Hashirama was kind. Open and welcoming and steady, never hesitating and standing his own ground. “ _He is the perfect leader!”_ agreed everyone around, because power and virtue were all they needed to survive the change. _“What a wonderful father,”_ nobody mentioned, because there was never a need for lies.

 _“…he’ll be a great warrior, Hashirama-sama!”_ they cheered, though.

 _“…just you wait, Hashirama-sama, one day your son will surely surpass you!”_ they promised.

 _“…aren’t you proud, Hashirama-sama?”_ they beamed.

     It was never really a choice for him to stay in the shadows. Clan Head’s eldest son, brilliant and fast and deadly, and just as good as was expected of him. He was everything he should be, everything he was trained to be from the day he took his first, uncertain step.  
     He never wanted to fight, though.  
     Never had a chance not to.

     Time of the Warring States was a living hell nobody could escape. His mother fell when he was barely five, struck down in battle by a furious Uchiha man after she decapitated his wife just moments before. His little brother followed shortly after, taken by a sudden, virulent disease their father undoubtedly could’ve cured, weren’t he miles away shedding blood.

     Shinobi life was violent. Always fast and always dangerous, always on edge and on the line. It made them value life the most of all and disregard it just as easily, and building the Village made of foes could never change that. Not really.  
     Hashirama might’ve always dreamt of peace, but he could never imagine a world where his children didn’t have to fight.

 _“…he looks just like you, Hokage-sama,”_ they praised.

 _“…what a fine Senju,”_ they smiled.

 _“…,oh? He inherited your Mokuton, Hokage-sama? How very promising…”_ they acquiesced.

     But being the son of the Hokage was never right.

     He was sworn to be a ninja from the moment of his birth, taught and trained by the finest his clan had to offer. The prodigy, they called him. A genius, just like his father.  
     Yet the only thing he could have ever wished for was a quiet, simple life.  
     He could’ve been a farmer or a fisherman, a stall-cook even. He would’ve been happy selling weapons or seals, or teaching kids how to move around unnoticed. He could’ve build houses with his _Mokuton_ and be useful to the ever growing Village community as a property maintenance man. He could’ve been anything, really, but… 

     Whenever, wherever he showed up, the shadow of his father was always already there, waiting to strike.

_“…Hashirama-sama…?”_

_“…shirama-sama!”_

     A man can go against his own nature only for so long, though.  
     The Village was set. The war was over. There was no need nor reason for him to sacrifice a lifetime, so desperately preserved and cherished. Life saved at the countless cost of the others and at the expense of his own soul, not pure, _never to be pure again_ , just to be thrown away for a greater good. To be throw away like it meant nothing, for nothing more than a whim of a fool.

 _War is never pretty. Death is never kind. Foe is never the only one to blame._  
     But we like to tell ourselves otherwise, so we can keep going. Isn’t that right, father? It’s easier to get up every day and fulfil the duties when the world around is only black and white. No judgment necessary, no questions in need of ask. Simple path forward that only leads through. Obstacles, inconveniences, disagreements, bonds… _There’s nothing in our way we cannot overcome if the will behind the motive is strong enough. Nothing really matters as long as there’s a purpose lighting up the way._  
_But you know all that, don’t you, father. In the end, it’s you who taught us to dream big and never back off. To live with choices, not regrets. To stand up and take what’s ours rather than wait passively until given a chance to move._

_So I choose, father. I stand up to take my dream, and nothing you can do will ever stop me._

The End

 

* _Lays of Ancient Rome_ _– Thomas Babington Macaulay_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m aware of the ridiculously tangled sentences in here and I’m really proud of anyone who managed to get through all of them! ^^” Maybe someday I’ll find the patience and inspiration to simplify this monstrosity, but, well, not today :3  
>   
>  **Rant time!**  
>  So in order for timelines to fit (see this [article](http://naruto.wikia.com/wiki/User:Seelentau/Naruto_Timeline) that's basically my Naruto bible), Hashirama must’ve married Mito roughly in the middle of the Warring States Era. But I was always under the impression that his marriage to an Uzumaki princess was to ensure alliance with Uzushio, and that would make it after Konoha foundation, as it was the first Hidden Village to ever form. So unless Tsunade is his daughter rather than the “grand” (and that creates another hole with Nawaki being so much younger) he needed to have a wife and children in his late teens/early twenties.  
> Because his children were never named, let alone mentioned, I assumed they would be somewhat rebellious and/or super-weak dead lasts (what’s Naruto equivalent for “squib”, anyone? :D) and that’s where this fic started, what it was supposed to be – a fix to a plot hole. That is, before my brain somehow decided that angsty insight on war was far more important :D  
> Also, there is probably no death in Naruto that triggers me more than Itama’s, even though he had like 5 minutes of screen time, so bear with me, please :3


End file.
